


210 - Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby (by Cigarettes After Sex)

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert, Songfic NonCatfish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 19:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17392694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “a song fix based on the song "nothing’s gonna hurt you baby” by cigarettes after sex? Maybe like the girls parents are rude to her, or maybe they died, and she feels all alone, and van is always trying to assure her that he won’t hurt her? And The other parts, maybe he’s whispering something odd in her ear to make her blush, and like they’re dancing to music in the living room and drinking. just fluffy"





	210 - Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby (by Cigarettes After Sex)

It is an absolutely universal experience to be annoyed when someone is able to make you smile when you're angry, hurt, or frustrated. Those moments where you try to hold onto the pain, like a safety blanket keeping you apart from the rest of the world. If that is taken away with a little laugh or the tiniest of micro expressions, then you'd have to talk, or be okay again. 

And, in that moment, you were not ready to be okay again. If you didn’t want to be okay though, you shouldn't have fallen in love with Van McCann.

"Baaaaaaaaaaaby," he whispered in your ear. You kept staring straight ahead, watching everyone play pool from the where you were sitting on the pub couch, legs pulled up to your chest defensively. 

The week had been rough; each day getting progressively more bleak and challenging and soul-crushing. Bad news. Missed opportunities. Rude people. Sleepless nights. Horrible food. Nothing good.

You had agreed to the pub with everyone because, like most of your becauses, Van. Even the warmth and safe familiarity of the place wasn't helping. The beer tasted too bitter. The leather of the couch was making annoying squeaking sounds. Everyone was too loud, telling you to smile and chin up!

Van tried again, opting for shock value. A string of dirty, perverted and entirely beautiful words fell from his mouth, too quiet for anyone but you to hear. As he spoke, your cheeks went red, and you stopped him by looking away with a smile.

"Hey! There we go!" he cheered, kissing your burning cheek. "Made ya smile. What do I win?"

You looked back at him, pouting.

"You can take me home and do any of that to me?" you offered. He grinned, a little surprised and a lot in love.

In the back of the uber, you told Van about some of the week's trauma. He listened carefully, then shrugged, like he could just brush it all away like that.

"Don't know what to tell ya, babe. That's a shit time, but it's done now. We'll have a good weekend, just us, and it will be alright. As long as you're with me, you'll be alright, yeah?" he asked, the question not rhetorical. You looked up at him from where you'd melted into the seat and nodded.

…

Sitting on the couch in the living room, you watched Van flick through records. He was taking too long, so you disappeared to the kitchen to find wine and distraction. Van's blue mirrored sunglasses. You looked at yourself through them in the microwave's reflective door. How did Van not manage to look stupid in them? You shrugged and left them on. Bottle of wine under one arm, glasses hanging over fingers and hand holding a bag of cooking chocolate chips - the only comfort food left in the house, you returned to Van. He sniggered when you slumped back onto the couch. The room was filled with the sound of R. Kelly.

"Dead suit you, babe," he said, as you handed him the bottle. He uncorked and poured.

"Can you put the fire on?"

Van looked over at the blackened fireplace; unused for months and hardly ever appreciated by anyone other than you. He sighed and looked down at you.

"Please?"

"Only if you dance with me later," he countered. If you danced, you'd smile and laugh and your little safe bad mood spell would be broken. He knew that. You shook your head. "Yeah! Fire and dance. No fire and no dance. There's ya options."

You groaned loudly, dramatically, and picked up a glass of wine.

"Fire. Dance," you growled out. Van laughed and left the room to go get wood from out the back.

Once the fire was going, Van held his hand out.

"No. Let me get more drunk," you insisted, finishing the last of the wine in your glass and repouring. Van took the bottle from you before you finished. Some of the red spilt across the coffee table, but he didn't care. You were up and being gently whisked around the room.

"Anyone would think you don't love me, Y/N," he said. You sighed and wrapped your arms around his neck, laying your head on his chest. He held you close and slowed the dancing down to melodic swaying.

"I love you," you said quietly.

"I know. I know you do. Was jus' jokin'. I love you too. Not gonna let anything happen to you, 'kay?"

You nodded and held him tighter.

More wine. Then, more wine.

You watched Van sing into what he said was a microphone, but it was the television remote. He tried his best to rap to the hip hop tracks, but failed both miserably and beautifully. In his mess, your safety blanket of pain and angst came unthreaded. You didn't need it when you had Van.

What you did need though, was about twenty squares of paper towel. Van had done a particularly ridiculous impersonation of Eminem, who he didn't like much because he thought he was pretending to be someone he wasn't and he "don't respect girls much, you know what I mean?" The wine in your mouth shot out through your nose and mouth and went dry and sticky all over you. Too drunk to know how to deal with the situation, you stayed lying on the couch. Van watched you for a few seconds, waiting.

"You gonna… clean yourself?" he asked, amused and also drunk. You shrugged in reply.

"It's like… not enough?" you answered. Van looked at you confused. "Not enough of a mess to need to clean."

Van nodded, and you could see the spark in his eye that usually preceded trouble and mayhem. He took your wine glass from you; it had only a little bit left. He held it above you.

"Van…" you said in a warning.

"How much do you like that top?"

"It's a work top. I hate it," you answered.

"Thought so," he replied, then tipped the rest of the wine onto you. The room was void of conversation for a few moments. You both watched the red soak into the material of your clothes, and drip onto the couch under you.

"Was there like, a point… of doin' that?" you asked him, leaning over and pouring more wine into the glass he had placed on the table. 

"Yeah," he answered, quickly scooping you up. You held your glass tight and asked no more questions as he carried you from the room.

Van sat you on the bathroom vanity. The shower went on and the room filled with steam because the fan hadn't been switched on, nor had the light. The door was open enough to illuminate the room. You leant back against the mirrored wall and let Van undress you, drinking wine around him and sharing your glass. Sliding off the counter and out of your pants, you stepped into the shower and watched Van get undressed then join you.

When the glass was emptied of wine, you filled it with water and poured it over Van's head, making him laugh and tickle you in retaliation. Vision and balance hazy from the wine and the love, you closed your eyes and let Van push you against the shower wall and remind you of some of the good things in left in the world.

After a while, and off his knees, Van asked if you wanted bed.

"No," you whispered, sated in every way a person could be. "Fire,"

"Course."

Wrapped in clean towels, you stood and waited as Van set up a little nest of blankets and pillows. When you laid down, the pillow cases were still cool from the air in the bedroom they'd been pulled from. Van wrapped himself around you and you kissed his wine-stained lips.

"All better now?" he asked, nuzzling into you. You made a small mm-hmm sound; he nodded in response. "Good, 'cause tomorrow you gotta help me clean the couch." Laughing, you rolled him over and climbed on top. 

And, in that moment, you were ready to be okay again. After all, you had fallen in love with Van 'nothing is gonna hurt my baby' McCann.


End file.
